


i really (really really) like you

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Background Alexander Ovechkin/Nicklas Backstrom - Freeform, M/M, Meet...Cute??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:45:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: He’s partially managed to tune out the racket behind him when there’s a burst of laughter and a shout of “get fucked, Croz!” and someone very heavy is shoved sideways into Zhenya so hard that Zhenya ends up on the floor.





	i really (really really) like you

 

 

 

Zhenya’s not the biggest fan of the dining hall.

It’s loud and echoey and the food all smells wrong. And, just. So much English. By the time he and Sasha head in for dinner he’s always exhausted from wrestling with it all day. Talking to Sasha, though, is a break from people making him feel _stupid,_ so. Here he is.

Sasha, though, is less than sympathetic.

When Zhenya whines that they could easily make their own, better food in their dorm kitchen and avoid all of this, he scoffs at Zhenya.

“And miss this valuable chance to observe the American university ecosystem? Where is your sense of scholarly fortitude?” he says, clutching dramatically at his heart.

“Up your ass, where I’ve made you shove it,” Zhenya mutters into his gluey mashed potatoes.  

“You think you’re funny,” Sasha says patronizingly, and pats him on the cheek. “As I said, observe!” His voice takes on the serious, droning tone of a nature documentary narrator.

“And here we see the Russian Table of Brotherhood, where the wild Russian has retreated to be amongst his own kind! Note his colorful plumage, which he uses to attract his many, many mates and show his dominance over lesser males! “ Sasha pulls his necklaces out of his shirt and rattles them obnoxiously.

Zhenya rolls his eyes but can’t really get on his case, as he himself has no less than three different necklaces on at the moment.

Seryozha just shakes his head at Sasha with a longsuffering sigh of “ _underclassmen_ ,”  while Kuzya tugs on the admittedly rather shiny jacket he’s wearing.

“Is it too much, do you think?” Kuzya asks, and Sasha puts him in a headlock so he can aggressively ruffle his hair and coo at him.  

“You are perfect, my little chick,” Sasha says, and Zhenya rolls his eyes again. Still, idiot or not, Sasha is at least mildly entertaining.

“What else?” Zhenya prompts, hoping he’s not going to be sorry he asked.

Sasha hums, scanning the crowded hall. There’s the bang of the doors opening and the noise level ratchets up even further as a big group of guys all come in at once.

“Ah,” Sasha intones. “Observe the hockey player, traveling in a pack with his fellows. This majestic creature flocks with others of his kind, communicating in a language all his own.”

“Majestic,” Zhenya says flatly, grimacing as it becomes clear the hockey team is coming closer. There’s an empty table right behind their little fortress of Russian solitude, and the entire damn team is probably headed for it. And, Zhenya likes hockey just fine--it’s just that they’re so, so loud.

“Dirty fucking _dangles_ , boys!” Zhenya thinks he hears one of them say.

“That can’t be English,” he complains, but Sasha isn’t paying attention. He’s looking over at the where one of the players is getting in line for food.

“Look at him,” Sasha sighs. “An angel.”

Zhenya looks. The guy’s long hair is wet and scraggly from a shower, and his eyes hold the dead-eyed menace of a shark.

“Poor Sasha,” he says, with false sympathy. “America has finally broken you.”

“He’s Swedish,” Sasha says dreamily. “Not American.”

“Oh my god,” Zhenya groans, and returns to trying to choke down his food.

He’s partially managed to tune out the racket behind him when there’s a burst of laughter and a shout of “get fucked, Croz!” and someone very heavy is shoved sideways into Zhenya so hard that Zhenya ends up on the floor.

Zhenya swears violently in Russian, tailbone aching and half of his food smeared across the front of his shirt. One of his legs is still hitched up over his chair and his face burns, as laughter breaks out around him. Seriously, fuck America, and everything in it.

The guy who was pushed into him raises himself off of where he’d been thrown over Zhenya’s chair and looks down at him.

“Oh, shit, I’m so, so sorry,” he stammers, red faced and looking just as embarrassed as Zhenya feels. He’s still pinning down Zhenya’s foot and he’s fucking heavy, so Zhenya kicks at him and scowls. The guy scrambles to his feet and moves to help Zhenya up, first unhooking his leg from the chair and then giving him a hand to help Zhenya haul himself to his feet. He keeps up a nervous stream of apologies that Zhenya only half follows.

When Zhenya is on his feet, he’s kind of surprised to see that he looms over him. The hockey player blinks up at him, startled.

“Wow,” he says. “You’re _really_ tall.” There’s some muffled sniggering from the hockey table but when Zhenya turns to glare it dies down. He’s fucking had it with idiots today.

“I’m really, _really_ sorry,” the guy says, again. Zhenya thinks he’s got an accent, his vowels stretch in kind of a funny way, especially on the “sorry.”

“You’re so fucking Canadian, Sid,” one of his teammates hoots, and Sid, apparently, manages to go even redder. He’s kind of… cute, or whatever, but Zhenya is too exhausted and fed up for it really to register.

“Let me get you, some napkins, or something?” Sid’s hands flutter up towards the mess on Zhenya’s chest like he’s about to start dabbing at it like a fussy mom. Zhenya takes a step back.

“Is ok,” he says, and turns to collect his tray from where it’s fallen.

“Oh, here, let me—” Sid says, but Zhenya shakes his head.

“Is fine,” he grits out, and, debris gathered, slings his backpack over one shoulder and practically stalks from the hall. He glances back, just for a moment. Sid is standing there staring after him, looking almost forlorn, hands hanging at his sides, some of Zhenya’s food splattered across his team sweatshirt. Whatever. Not Zhenya’s problem.

 

***

 

Later, when he’s ensconced in bed with his laptop and some pirated TV, Sasha comes noisliy in.

“I come bearing gifts!” he announces, raising aloft something wrapped in a napkin. When he hands it to Zhenya, Zhenya can see it’s a slice of the dining hall’s peanut butter chocolate pie. It’s the best thing they make, and it’s almost impossible to score a slice before it’s gone.

“Thanks,” Zhenya says gratefully, and Sasha beams at him.

“Don’t thank me, thank Sid! The poor thing felt so bad about _accidentally_ getting _pushed_ into you that he hovered by the dessert bar for twenty minutes so that he could get you a piece. He was very adamant that I bring it to you posthaste. It was adorable.”

Zhenya stares down at the slightly squashed but delicious pie, and is hit with the memory of Sid’s flushed face and wide, apologetic eyes. Had they been brown? Green?

“Whatever,” he says, taking an aggressive bite of pie.

“I also gave him your number,” Sasha says beatifically, and Zhenya chokes.

“Why the fuck—”

Zhenya’s phone chimes, and he fumbles for it. There’s a text from an unknown number.

_**Hi, this is Sidney Crosby, from the dining hall today? I just wanted to apologize again for what happened.** _

Really, this is a little excessive. _Does this kid have a martyr comple_ x, Zhenya wonders. _And what is the deal with all the proper punctuation?_  He types back a reply, laboriously.

**not your fault**

**you get pushed**

The reply is startlingly fast.

_**I know, but still. The guys shouldn’t have been horsing around like that in a public area. And your friend said you’d been having a crap day, and I feel bad it got added to.** _

**sid.** Zhenya types **. is ok. Promise. Will not send mafia to get you.** Zhenya’s been here long enough to know what the stereotypes are. He’s not afraid to tease a little.

_**I wasn’t thinking that!** _ Sid answers, and somehow Zhenya can imagine the pouty indignation in the words. He’s smiling, he realizes.

**i know**

**everything ok, sid.**

**Have good night**

_**Okay. Have a good night, Evgeni.** _

Zhenya stares bemusedly at his phone, then shakes his head and lays it on his nightstand. What an odd guy.

Even so, he falls asleep still trying to remember what color Sid’s eyes were.

 

***

 

A week later, during dinner, Sasha perks up at the sight of someone behind  Zhenya.

“Siiidney!” he says expansively, spreading his arms. “Sit, sit!” When Zhenya turns to look, there’s Sid, nervously clutching his tray, a high color in his cheeks.

“Ok if I sit?” he murmurs to Zhenya as he sets his tray down.

“Yes?” Zhenya says, a little perplexed as to why he’s being consulted when Sasha has just clearly invited Sid to sit with them. Sid slides into the chair next to Zhenya, glancing at him out of the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not bite,” Zhenya says.

“Unless ask ve-ery very nice,” Sasha chortles.

“Shut up,” Zasha grumbles at him. He turns to Sid. “You learn to—” He mimics turning down a stereo dial in the air in front of Sasha. He can’t remember the English for “tune him out.” Sid bursts into a fit of honest to god giggles. It’s not cute. It isn’t.

“Thanks for pie,” Zhenya tells him quietly, when Sasha is distracted by the arrival of Seryozha and Kuzya.

“Oh, for sure,” Sid says, looking down at his plate. His eyelashes are inky against his skin.

Zhenya makes sure to smile reassuringly at him the next time Sid glances up. Can’t have him keep thinking Zhenya’s going to eat him alive.

Sid doesn’t say much, even when Sasha tries to grill him about Sasha’s Swedish dreamboat. “I’m not giving Nicklas’s number to you without asking him first,” Sid says, unimpressed with all of Sasha’s wheedling.

“Smart. Sasha is most annoying,” Zhenya tells him, which earns him a wide, goofy smile from Sid.

Sid has to leave before they do, citing hockey practice and waving goodbye at all of them like a dork.

“Odd guy,” Zhenya says, poking at his Jello. They’d been totally out of all the good desserts. He looks up when he doesn’t get a response from anyone,  only to find that they’re all staring at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Our precious little Sidney has got so it bad,” Sasha tells him, with an extra layer of “How Dense ARE You” in his tone. “Really, it’s painful to watch. I thought maybe you were trying to politely discourage him, but it turns out you're just stupid.”

“He—what?”

Seryozha sighs. “I’ve a million times and I’ll say it again. Fucking. Under. Classmen.”

Zhenya blinks, mind whirling. Sid likes him?

 

***

 

Zhenya has a halo of index cards surrounding him on his bed when Sasha, as per the usual, explodes into the room with all the consideration and grace of a rhinoceros. He dumps out a plastic shopping bag onto Zhenya’s cards, totally scattering his collections of irregular verbs.

“Fucking—is this, _glitter_?” he asks incredulously, picking up a tube of some kind of hot pink goop.

We,” Sasha announces. “Are going to a hockey game tonight!”

“Sasha, no,” Zhenya groans.

“Sasha, yes!” Sasha fires back, slapping down a piece of posterboard, sending the last few index cards fluttering to the floor. “Now help me and Google the Swedish flag.”

“Fuck you and fuck your thirsty dick,” Zhenya groans, flopping backwards and covering his face with his textbook.

“That is the plan, yes,” Sasha says, unaffected. “Except it’s my ass—”

“SHUT UP!” Zhenya shouts. “Fine, if you _shut_ _up_ about your ass, I’ll help you with your stupid fucking poster.”

Sasha hums happily to himself as they work, and it would be almost sweet except for how he’s humming that one song, “Pony,” or something, from the Channing Tatum movie they’d watched the other night.

Zhenya sighs. Under it all, beneath about six layers of absurdity, Sasha is a good guy, and he’d probably worship the ground any partner of his would walk on. Zhenya carefully sprinkles gold glitter on the Swedish flag, and thinks about what being that much in love would feel like.

He also thinks a little bit about Sid’s dorky laugh, and the way his had hair looked soft where it curled against his neck.

 

***

 

Zhenya hadn’t realized. Sid’s earnest bashfulness had somehow made Zhenya picture him as a hardworking fourth liner. Hardworking he certainly is, but he’s the damn _captain_ of the team, and his hockey is so fucking beautiful Zhenya practically has to scrape his jaw off of the sticky, popcorn-strewn floor.

When Sasha isn't waving his glittery sign and yelling at his crush, he's smirking at Zhenya.

 

***

 

That night Zhenya lies awake staring at the ceiling, and it’s not even due to Sasha’s snoring this time.

He thinks about curling dark hair and shy glances and peanut butter chocolate pie and gorgeous stickhandling, all swirling around his brain in a cloud of _oh-shit-now-what_.

 

***

 

He doesn’t see Sid again for a while. But eventually Sasha charms his way into a frat party invite, and when they get there they find a large contingent of athletes, including a good portion of the hockey team. Sasha lights up and goes in search of Nicklas, leaving Zhenya on his own. Zhenya doesn’t mind. He like parties. It’s dim and he can lose himself in the pulsing beat of the music. Dancing is a language that doesn’t need translation. He lets his body do the talking for him, and pretty soon, he has his hands on the hips of a pretty girl, and all he has to do is smile and move with her.

Eventually, though, she yells something about more booze over the thump of the bass and leaves. Zhenya makes a slow turn, looking for another partner when he sees him.

Sid is standing against the wall, red solo cup clutched in one hand. He’s wearing too much gel in his hair and a baggy button-down that’s clearly his idea of “dressed up.” He looks painfully awkward. Zhenya grins at the sight. He’s so incredibly endearing, now that Zhenya’s paying proper attention.

Zhenya weaves his way through other dancers until he’s standing in front of Sid. Sid looks up at him, all big eyes and softly parted lips. Fuck, he has such a pretty mouth.

“Dance?” Zhenya calls over the music, jerking a thumb at the dance floor. Sid blinks up at him. Zhenya lets his eyes skim over him. The terrible shirt can’t quite manage to hide the breadth of his shoulders. Shame about the baggy khaki pants, though. When he meets Sid’s eyes again, Sid is blushing furiously.

“I’m a really awful dancer,” he tells Zhenya, but he looks like he wants to say yes.

“I’m best, can show,” Zhenya says, and grins at him. He holds out a hand for Sid’s cup, and waits. Sid gives him a long look, biting his lip, but eventually hands the cup over for Zhenya to set on an end table.

“Don’t pick up again,” Zhenya says in his ear, and he puts his hands on Sid’s hips and draws him into the crowd of dancers. “Not safe after leave sit.”

“Good tip. Safety first, eh?” Sid says, and giggles nervously.

Zhenya keeps his mouth close to Sid’s ear and tries to get him to relax. “You skate, yes? Know how to tell body what to do. Make hips loose. Move with music.” He shows him, rolling his body but keeping a little space between them. Sid shudders. “Don’t think so hard,” Zhenya adds, making a goofy looking shimmy just to see Sid wrinkle his nose and laugh. Sid starts moving. Zhenya takes his hands off of him, partly to give him space and partly so he himself isn’t tempted to put his hands anywhere Sid might not want them yet.

They bop around a little bit, and it’s silly and fun. Zhenya keeps doing slightly ridiculous things to coax Sid’s laughter out of him again.

After a while, Sid’s attention seems to latch onto something to Zhenya’s left. With a weird kind of intensity, actually. Zhenya’s heart sinks, thinking that he’s losing Sid’s interest. The music changes, something a little slower and sexier. Sid looks twitchy, and Zhenya thinks, this is it. Sid’s officially uncomfortable. He’s going to head off for air or more alcohol or something.

Sid’s staring to Zhenya’s left again, brow furrowed in concentration, before he pauses for the briefest of seconds, then executes a deep, fluid body roll that makes Zhenya’s throat instantly go dry and his blood flood southwards.  Sid looks at him, anxious, as if to ask if he did it right.

He’s been watching somebody behind Zhenya dance and trying to copy them, Zhenya realizes. He feels a rush of affection join his arousal and he moves closer, letting their bodies brush, moving against him in an almost-grind.

Sid turns in his arms, back to Zhenya’s front, and takes Zhenya’s hands, putting them low on his hips. Zhenya swallows. He can feel the warmth of Sid’s overheated body through his clothes, and when Sid leans back and grinds into him Zhenya nearly cannot believe what he’s feeling. Sid’s ill fitting clothes are hiding an absolutely, undoubtedly, _mind-blowing_ ass. Zhenya groans.  Sid is going to be the death of him.

At this point, there’s no concealing whatsoever the effect Sid is having on Zhenya. But Sid moves back into him, letting his head fall back onto Zhenya’s chest and reaching up a hand to lay it along Zhenya’s face. Zhenya can’t do much more than pant and hold on as they continue to dance together.

The music changes again, something poppy and bouncy. Sid’s body stills, and Zhenya wraps his arms around him from behind, resting his forehead on Sid’s shoulder in order to center himself for a moment.

Sid pulls away, and Zhenya lets him loose. He doesn’t go anywhere though,  just turns and takes Zhenya’s hand, threading their fingers together. He tugs, and Zhenya follows him to the porch of the frat house, to take deep gulps of cool, fresh air.

“How much did you drink tonight?” Sid asks, softly. “You sober?”

“Just have one drink,” Zhenya answers. “Like dance more then get wasted.”

“I just had half of the one,” Sid says. He looks into Zhenya’s eyes, clearly nervous but determined. Like he’s across a face off dot in a playoff game. “Is...is your roommate out?”

“Yes,” Zhenya chokes out. “Sasha gone for hours. Do you want…”

“Yeah,” Sid says, flushed red but certain. “Yeah.”

 

***

 

Back in Zhenya’s room, Zhenya learns a lot of things. He learns how the fall of moonlight through his window looks on Sid’s skin. He learns the lines of Sid’s thickly muscled body. He leans the beautiful sounds Sid makes when Zhenya lies back and just lets Sid _take_. He throws his head back as Sid sucks kiss marks into his neck, and his chest, and he learns that he himself can make sounds that he’d never heard himself make before.

They take each other apart, slow, and exploratory. When it’s over, Zhenya learns what it’s like to lie awake, someone’s head resting over his heart, listening to them breathe in sleep. Feeling like the entire world just broke apart, the pieces settling back into place in a pattern altogether new.

 

***

 

They’re rudely awoken the next morning when Sasha clatters into the room, looking pleased with himself and wearing his shirt inside out.

“Oh good, you manage to remove head from ass, Zhenya. Congratulations to you both, I expect to be best man at wedding.”

“Uugh,” Sid says, and pulls Zhenya’s blanket over his head. Zhenya is inclined to do the same.

“Let’s get cleaned up and get some fucking brunch,” Sasha says, throwing a shirt at Zhenya.

“I hate you,” he replies, but it’s without heat, because waffles and American style pancakes sound really good, honestly. Sid emerges from the blankets, blinking like an annoyed owl, bedhead riotous and adorable.

“Hi,” Zhenya says to him, smiling helplessly.

“Hi,” Sid answers, smiling back.

“Gross,” Sasha adds, cheerfully. “I’m take shower. Don’t leave without me, Nicke will come too and it will be double date!”  He makes actual finger guns at them and lets the door slam behind him, because of course he does.

Zhenya looks at Sid. “Coffee?” he says,  shrug implying that it would partially make up for dealing with Sasha before noon on a Saturday morning.

“Okay,” Sid says. Then, hesitantly: “A date?”

“You want?” Zhenya asks.

“Yeah,” Sid says, smile wide and crooked and beautiful. “I really, really want.”

Zhenya tackles him back down to the bed, grinning into Sid’s neck before pressing a smacking kiss to it.

“Date,” he says happily, as Sid strokes his hair. “All the date.”

“For sure,” Sid says. “All of them.”

 

***

  
  


Five years later, when Zhenya asks Sid to marry him, he makes sure to do it with a slice of peanut butter chocolate pie.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [werebear ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/). 
> 
> Title is from, uh, "I Really Really Like You" by Carly Rae Jepson. 
> 
> Absurd hockey slang brought to you by Letterkenny. 
> 
> You can find me as [creaturesofnarrative ](http://creaturesofnarrative.tumblr.com/) (main) and [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/) (hockey blog) on Tumblr, and as @RainyForecast on Twitter. Come say hi!


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